


Lost and Lost Again

by dentigerous



Category: Loki: Agent of Asgard, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Ragnarok - Fandom, Thor (Comics), Thor (Movies), Thor: Tales of Asgard
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-30 20:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19410397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dentigerous/pseuds/dentigerous
Summary: After Thor discovers a mysterious weapon hidden underneath Asgard, he and Loki must unravel the mystery of who made it, how it came to into their possession, and their own legacy. They travel through time and minds, encountering the terror of their own family in different eons, learning about the empire of Ashura, the lost land that stood before Asgard came to conquer.A story of many princes.





	1. Into the Coldwell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wraithnoir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wraithnoir/gifts).



Thor peered into the Coldwell, looking down at the deep dark water. He pressed his mouth, twisting the leather strap of Mjolnir around his hand.“You’re sure it fell?”

“Of course,” Loki murmured, kneeling at the pool’s edge, “it slipped from my fingers. I’m not usually so clumsy.”

Thor sighed, taking a few steps back. He set his weapon down and began to strip off layers.

Loki glanced over, watching him for a few seconds. He smirked and sat back, still kneeling in the snow. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going after your little trinket, what does it look like I’m doing?”

Loki’s expression didn’t change. He seemed mildly disinterested, utterly unsurprised, and slightly delighted by the reaction. “No-one knows how deep the Coldwell is, brother.”

“Well, I will find the bottom and tell you,” Thor said, stepping up to the edge, the snow under his feet melting quickly. “Start a fire for me.”

Loki looked up at him, eyebrows raised. “You expect me to wait for you?”

“Aye, and be pleasant about it.” Thor took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders. Loki’s smile did not drop. He settled on the stone and gestured, a green light emitting from his fingertips. The snow around him moved back, and Loki smirked up at Thor.

“Go on.”

Thor grimaced. He took a deep breath and spun Mjolnir around its strap until it whirred at a dizzying speed. Loki didn’t face him but watched him nonetheless, eyes turned towards the corners of his sight. Thor jumped and splashed down into the Coldwell, diving down, letting Mjolnir pull him under.

Above, Loki stood, brushed down his cloak, and looked around the forest. He walked around the trees, finding a few sticks and bringing them back to the side of the Coldwell. The well was buried in the forests that surrounded Asgard, a bright sapphire nestled in the white snow that fell from the mountains. It didn’t get too cold close to the palace, but up here, nearer the peaks, laid in the valleys, there was snow on the ground and ice on the air.

Loki looked down into the Coldwell, saw nothing, not even bubbles. He snapped his fingers and the fire lit, reflecting off the golden archer’s bracer he wore. He turned, and left the Coldwell, heading back to the horses. Taking his mount, he pulled himself up and turned Dagfoil toward the palace. Thor would find a fire when he returned, but not his brother.

Underwater, Thor plunged into the depths of the Coldwell. It was dark, darker than he expected, and he felt stupidly for being surprised.The pressure was crushing, but Thor barely felt it, dropping faster and faster into the well. The cold was beginning to numb his hands and face, but his body was still warm. The pitch around him seemed to be made of the void itself.

Then, a light. Something ahead, a blue glow.

Thor pulled on Mjolnir, and the hammer stopped spinning so fast, stopped dragging him down. He sunk slowly and laid a hand out on the sides of the well. It felt soft, vegetal, and Thor put his hammer against it, slowing himself down to a crawling pace. He descended to the level of the glow, digging his heels into the rock as well, catching himself in front of a cave.

The glow was gentle and steady, and Thor decided that maybe the brightling bracer his brother had dropped would be found later. Perhaps, never. This was a far more interesting adventure. He set his feet against the wall and pushed off, diving into the cave. The pressure was enough, and he was deep into the Coldwell, so he was able to walk along the bottom of the cave. His lungs ached but he didn’t feel endangered and doubted that something like water would be able to finish him off anyway.

The cave went further back than Thor had expected, and there were a few places barely narrow enough for him to pass through. The scrapes along his chest and back stung, but he pressed on. The glow became brighter the further in he went until the caverns turned upwards, and the glow was a moon above him. He set his feet on the stony ground beneath and jumped up, Mjolnir above his head.

Thor broke through the ice covering the underground cave, a pocket of water formed by eons of plant life depositing air into the water, the strange tide of the Coldwell pulling water away. He scrambled for the sides, breathing hard and shivering, his body immediately reacting to the biting air. The cave continued, moving back and up, deeper into the earth of Asgard. The walls of the cave here glowed silver and slate, the vegetation reacting to the open air and emitting the light.

Taking a deep breath, Thor wrapped Mjolnir's strap around his wrist twice and began to climb up the slick cave. The air around him was pungent, smelling of salt and decaying plants. He grasped an outcropping, and a creature with many legs skittered over his hand, falling down. It was a pale silver thing, as long and as thin as one of Loki’s daggers, with a bright streak of orange down its back. Thor watched it knock against the sides of the cavern, splashing into the water, and diving down under the surface.

He only disturbed a few more daggered creatures as he pulled himself up to the glowing cave. He came to a landing and sat down, looking around. The vegetation seemed to wave at him, the cold air from the water blowing upwards, creating a draft. The glow was steady from each plant, but the movement of the stalks created a shimmering, pulsing effect. Thor looked up. There seemed to be only a few more ledges to get to before the opening he had seen from the bottom.

Thor took a deep breath and stood, steadying himself. He began to climb again. It took a small effort to get him up to the opening, and when he finally pulled himself through, he found himself in a large cave, stalagmites and stalactites feeding large, still pools in the space. There was a waterfall covered in icicles to his left, and it seemed to feed into the Coldwell, not going down the cavern he had just climbed up. Stepping carefully, Thor walked around a large stalagmite, towards one of the still pools in the center of the cave. He crouched down and slid his hand into the water, and was pleasantly surprised to find it warm. He quickly slid into the pool, the water not deep enough to cover his head when he stood.

Walking through the water, Thor paused. Underneath the still surface, something glinted. It wasn’t the soft moonlight glow of the plants. It looked more solid. He took a deep breath and went under, hand grasping for the flash.

Thor’s hand found a blade, cutting his palm open. He quickly pulled back, finding a grip that didn’t wound him, and pulled the lance-like weapon out from the ground. He scrambled out of the warm pool, tearing off a piece of his trousers to wrap around his palm, looking carefully at the lance he held.

Long, slim, not quite tall enough to be a proper lance, bladed all the way down. If Thor were to plunge the shaft into an enemy it would punch a star-shaped hole, five sharp edges coming out from the main metal. Thor inspected the cave again, this time trying to figure out if a battle had happened here, that a blade would be buried this far underground.

Above his head, an old wound in the rock. Some cracks and a little bit of the shake had flaked off. Thor frowned. Someone had thrown this lance through the cracks of the world itself, nestling it here for him to find. Thor found a good grip for the short lance and began the journey back through the caves and into the Coldwell.

It had been hours since he first began the descent, and at least he was able to use Mjolnir to aid in the rise upwards. He flew out of the pool, the cold crashing into him, beating him down onto the ground. The fire by the Coldwell was warm and he huddled next to it, taking deep breaths. When his hair was no longer in danger of breaking apart from the ice, he glanced around. No Loki. What did he expect? A fire was more kindness than his brother usually showed. It still stung to be abandoned. He shivered as he dressed, the lacerations on his chest and arms stinging, the deep cut in his palm pounding. He remembered the brightling bracer and was grateful that his brother wasn’t there to tease him about having left the precious object behind.

The Coldwell would wait.

Fully dressed, Thor jogged to his steed, untying Arfild and mounting him. He had Mjolnir tied at his hip and held the shortlance down by his side as he began the journey back to Asgard. Blood from his palm dripped down the hiltless lance, down into the crevices between the rondell blades. From the tip of the lance, a dark red thread of smoke emanated and then quickly disappeared, too fast for Thor to see.


	2. Jinan, Ashurae Opaline

Ashura’s golden plains were on fire. The days were shorter, it would be cold in the mountains, but still, the world burned. 

Jinan picked their way through the wreckage of what had once been a bustling city. It had bell towers and belfries, a port, a long, low, u-shaped altar that had been laden with gilded trinkets and sweet fruit. Now it was ash and shattered broken stone. Out of the wreckage, jagged metal and scorch marks of explosives.

All was lost in Rahat, Jinan knew. It was a dead city. They picked up a dark brick of charcoal that might have once been a skull, and sighed. 

“You are held and found. Be at rest.”

A silver light flew up from the bone. It twirled in an unfelt breeze and then descended around Jinan’s forehead like a diadem before disappearing. Jinan’s pale eyes were closed, but when they looked around again, they glowed like the moon. 

They saw it then: the golden-boughed, the dark hands. The plague of war that the raiders brought with them, the death in their wake. It was hard to watch: Jinan was now a young girl, running from her home. She cried out, fell, and was engulfed in a pink flame that was not of Ashura’s magic. Jinan shuddered, and their eyes became as opals again, glittering and pearly, milk-white and shot through with licks of bright colored flame. 

They turned and headed into the hilly fields, the flames extinguishing where they walked. It wasn’t far to the encampment, and Jinan whistled their approach. A sharp caw replied and Jinan jogged into camp. 

Three Kodha--elite members of the Ashura military--were standing around the fire. Two had a pair of arms each, and doubled wings, emerging from their backs with downy feathers out of low-backed armor. The third had three sets of arms, each pair aiming a notched bow at Jinan. 

“Rahat has been burned,” Jinan said quietly. The winged ones dropped their long kopis blades. The arrows were undrawn. 

“The Habashi?” The winged being with the darker coloration asked. They were tall, flat-chested, with golden hawks-eyes. Jinan nodded slowly. 

“Yes.”

They spat on the ground, turning away from the group.

The other winged one started after them, “Saqur-”

“Leave him, Bawma.” The woman with many arms murmured, sliding her bows into resting positions along her thighs. “They will not go far.”

Bawma, with white-owl wings and orange eyes, let out a deep breath and sat down slowly. They tucked their sword across their back and arranged their plated armor, shifting it again to cover their spine, double checking the straps that kept their sides safe. 

Jinan looked at Saqur’s back as they walked into the night. It was hard to let him go without reproach. Wasn’t Jinan supposed to lead? Weren’t they supposed to have answers? Jinan rubbed a hand over their eyes, walking closer to the fire and sitting down heavily. 

“Do you know who came?” 

Jinan glanced over at the woman as she sat. “Not a large number, but I saw the marks of the Horned One. She leads the charge.” Jinan leaned over again, running their hands through their short, dark hair. “She has great magic. I don’t know what we can do.”

“Ah, my love.” Three arms pulled Jinan closer to her side. Jinan was slight and smaller than she was and easily fit against her. “We fight.”

“Even to death, Alsahm?” Jinan murmured. “Even when we have nothing to fight for.”

“Honor is not unknown to Ashura,” Alsahm said, rubbing Jinan’s shoulders. “We will know honor.”

Jinan shook their head, allowing Alsahm to pull them closer. Across the fire, Bawma looked worriedly over their shoulder, but Saqur was still in the dark. 

“Perhaps they took to the sky?”

“Saqur knows better,” Jinan assured Bawma. Their owl-eyes shifted down to the ground, wings rustling against their back. 

“How many of us are left to fight for honor?” Bawma asked, their voice soft and low. “Maybe we should flee. Madina, Qalea, and Laqui have been destroyed. The Bright Road is no longer under our control...what allies do we have?” 

Jinan stared at the ground as Bawma continued, “I know Saqur feels the loss of our kind...we have no garrison. We have no carillion to toll our call to arms. Our flock has fallen.”

Sighing, Jinan nodded. “We have all been made low.”

The Ashurae were silent then. Jinan was not the eldest, but they were the inherited, and held magic and prophesy unparalleled among beings in the realm. They closed their eyes, rubbing their hand over their mouth. There was no sound in the camp, save the crackle of the fire. 

Alsahm broke the silence, making a noise in the back of her throat. “You two sleep. I will stand watch.”

Jinan didn’t argue, walking to the sleeping area and settling. Bawma spread their wings, and with a few powerful flaps of their wings, alighted in a branch above Jinan. Alsahm had two bows ready, but went over to Jinan, using her hands to tilt Jinan’s head up. Jinan smiled weakly, and Alsahm leaned down to kiss them quickly. “Sleep, my love.”

It wasn’t easy to resist Alsahm’s demand. Her words were silk, and they passed over Jinan gently. As Jinan fought to stay awake, they saw Suraq land. They tried to sit up, but Alsahm’s request pressed down on them, and Jinan’s eyes became too heavy to keep open. Before they fell completely asleep, Jinan saw Suraq’s wings spread wide as Alsahm stood in front of them, gesturing back to the sleeping area. Jinan heard Suraq’s sharp voice, and although they struggled to hear, there was nothing but a low hum before they fell completely asleep. 

When Jinan awoke, they were alone. 

It wasn’t unusual and they didn’t panic. They weren’t at the camp where Alsahm whispered them to sleep, where Bawma and Suraq roosted in the trees. This was a new time, a new place, and Jinan didn’t recognize the plains before him. They were green, covered in a grass that looked like wheat, but had a dark stalk. 

“Who treads here?” Jinan called out, walking into the field, towards what looked like a settlement in the distance. “Who brought me here?”

There was no answer, but Jinan looked over their shoulder anyway. They had expected something. Usually, when they were called across great distances like this there was sentient with a lodestone, but there appeared to be nothing here. What could have pulled them here? 

Jinan continued walking towards the settlement. They watched the thatch houses grow larger, confused why there was a gleaming at the corners. There was no movement either - no animal or creature of any kind. They got close and realized that the gleaming was gold inlaid into the foreign sigils and symbols carved into the wooden posts. 

It was a rich village then, to have gold out in public. 

Jinan curiously ran a hand over the sigils, trying to divine their meaning. They seemed familiar, with sharp edges and swift slashes. They looked like the signs of the raiders, but the joins were too smooth, and the lines ended sooner, with short stalks. Perhaps these were raider-signs. 

Jinan took a few steps back. They were raider signs. The signs of a raider with craftsman’s hands, with the time to settle, decades in the future. 

This was Rahat. The land without Rahat. 

If they were no longer raiders, who were the Habashi? Did they truly crave what Ashura held? The longing for a home and rest? There was land to spare on the golden plains; why did they not just live side by side? Many different beings of all forms lived in Ashura, those who sought shelter would not have been turned away. 

Jinan swallowed, looking around again, searching for any sign of the inhabitants of this town. There was still no movement. They started walking and then running in between the large halls. Jinan noticed details; whirring mechanics, beautiful, useless weapons across frames, water running in homes. 

At the center of the town was a fountain. Jinan stared as the water poured from the top statue. It was a trio of crossed swords, streams falling from the tips of the blades. The water was dark, sparkling, and made a noise like chimes as it fell to lower levels. Jinan would recognize those swords anywhere. 

Jinan dipped their hand into the water, and the chill made them clench their jaw. They closed their eyes, trying to feel something, anything, even if it wasn’t the power that had called them into this new Raider village where Rahat used to be. 

Laughter. The sounds of barter and trade. A sharp clap that sounded like metal smacking against stone. Jinan took a deep breath, waited again, and then opened their opaline eyes. 

Raider’s-Rahat was full children. The clapping came from the footsteps of large beasts with long necks, switching tails, and eyes like a new moon. Raiders rode on these creatures, and many pulled larger wheeled carriages or wagons. There were vendors in the streets who were giving out small treats to the young ones. They had skins of many colors, but every individual body was nearly identical. Jinan wondered how they kept each other straight. 

Men were fat, women, jolly. Children ran without their parents running after. They wore gold and lapiz in their hair. 

This was Raiderland. 

Maybe it was worth letting Rahat die. Maybe it was worth leaving Ashura. Jinan wondered where they and Alsahm would live. Just them. They were plenty. They were all Ashura if they let it come along. 

A warmth suddenly blossomed between Jinan’s shoulders. They blinked, mouth opening. Raiderland faded. The warmth turned to a burning, and then a beating, and then blood began to drip down Jinan’s chest. 

They were standing in the ruins of Rahat, and they had a sword emerging from their sternum. The pain hit them suddenly, and they collapsed to their knees. Footsteps, and then, from behind, their assailant, their assassin. 

Jinan couldn’t move their neck, something in their back severed. They coughed blood onto black boots. There was something said then, and Jinan could not hear their murderer. In their hand, they used the last of their magic to call forth a long, thin javelin. The future would not be swayed, but Jinan’s resolve crystalized; they would not be swayed either. 

They had only ever wanted a choice. 

With their last breath, Jinan sent the opal javelin not up, into the heart of their dark foe, but deep into the heart of Ashura, the cluster of making, the brightling world. 

Jinan looked up, but there was only the darkness, not even the sky. They sighed and fell, and knew that even if their world died, it would not take all the Ashurae with it. 


	3. Ymir, who has no blood

Thor returned to his rooms without seeing Loki. No doubt his brother would expect some kind of retribution for the prank, but Thor found he didn’t quite care. Loki’s tricks were expected even when unexpected and often meant that Thor discovered something new and grand while Loki was left to seethe. 

In this case, the javelin and the caves under the Coldwell. 

In his halls, a separate affair from the palace proper, Thor laid the javelin out on the table, looking over it carefully. Perfectly silver, it was some craft that was equal to that of the dwarves, made out of a material that was like steel but did not rust in the damp waters of the cave. It was strangely balanced in his hand when he held it at the blunted, encircled end, or when he held it halfway down the shaft. 

He hadn’t thrown it yet, worried that someone would ask where he had gotten the weapon, and unwilling to tell anyone else about his find until he knew what he wanted to do with it. 

After an hour of inspection, Thor placed the javelin down, carefully setting it on its point. There came a humming, a warmth from the weapon, and Thor instinctively took a step back, frowning. 

The javelin, balanced on its point, stood upright in his rooms. 

Thor, still unconvinced that this was not just magic, that it might be the bright invention of some kind of master metalsmith, tossed a plate at the thing. It toppled with a loud clang, cracking the table behind it and splitting the wood as it fell. Thor winced and then grinned. It didn’t feel nearly so heavy in his hand. Was it like Mjolnir and only responded with the weight it needed?

Thor picked it up again, sliding his hand over the thin, silver shaft. As he turned his hand around the circumference of it, he paused. What at first he had mistaken for a seam or even a small scratch he now realized was a thin, hairs-breadth groove in the metal. He traced it from the center of the circle at the dull end, all the way to the point of the needle-like javelin. As he hefted the weapon to eye-level, he saw that directly down from the origin of the groove was a small, almost imperceivable dot. 

It must be a hole into the weapon itself, but Thor had never seen anything like it. He tried to run water down the groove, but it seemed too thick to go into the weapon. 

That was it, wasn’t it? It was a weapon. It was not meant for water. Thor put down his mead, grateful that he hadn’t wasted any, and carefully set the javelin down on his bed of furs. He crouched and delicately put his thumb against the point of the needle. 

Blood welled up instantly and as Thor pulled his hand away, he saw the blood snake up the groove and then slide, almost sentient, into the tip of the javelin. 

It was only in retrospect that Thor thought that this might not have been the best idea. 

The small amount of blood he had offered all flowed into the javelin. Thor stood, took a few steps back, covering his hand with a small piece of cloth. The needle, angry-thin, eyed at one end, pulled the blood back out of the interior of the weapon, drawing it up the seam of it. It came to the eye at the top of the javelin, and circled the inside, creating a strange lace-like lattice on the inside of the eye. 

Thor, realizing that there was some magic here that was not like any he had ever seen, decided that maybe the weapon wanted space. He picked it up carefully and moved it to the side of his room, setting it again upright, balancing on the point of it. Satisfied, Thor left the room, unsure about what exactly to do with the strange other-worldly weapon he now had in his possession. 

Alone now, the javelin spun on its point. Slowly, as if surveying the room. In the center of the eye of the needle, something white and fiery began to form. 

After a few hours, an opal, brilliant with flashes of blue and orange, had appeared in the center of the javelin’s circle, held in place by strings of Asgardian blood. 

\-------------

In his own rooms, Loki’s skin began to crawl. He stood, discarding the bracelet that had been used to send Thor down into the depths of the Coldwell and drew a cloak around his shoulders. He left his own rooms, a veritable palace just attached to the Asgardian seat of power, twisting signals and putting up barriers as he walked. 

There was a pull, something strangely dark and old. It felt ancient, deeper even than the place, as deep as the murmuring of mountain halls. Loki found himself heading towards Thor’s halls, and he quickly ducked behind a column as Thor left his suites, oblivious to the rage of magic that seemed to emanate from his rooms. 

So he had made it out of the deep waters after all. Loki was a little disappointed, but there would be other opportunities to trick his brother to perform for him. Whatever he had done in the well, it was obvious that he hadn’t come back alone. 

Loki shook his head, watching his brother leave for the main rooms of the palace. He had thick skin and no intuition at all, especially if he couldn’t feel the kind of dark enemy that he had left behind. Loki paused a few more seconds and then slipped into Thor’s halls, making his way swiftly towards the bedchamber. 

The density of Thor’s skull would never cease to amaze him. 

The magic in this area felt as if a thin mirror were being held up to Loki’s skin. He felt as if he were being watched on all sides by a mysterious entity. 

Without pausing, Loki pushed open the bedchamber, heading into Thor’s room. His eyes were immediately drawn to the large, thin, javelin-like needle. It was rotating slowly, spinning on its point. The opal in the eye of the needle caught the light, but it wasn’t the flash of the brilliant gem that drew Loki’s gaze. 

There was such power in this craft. Loki hesitated to call it a weapon, not knowing anything about it, but he stepped forward slowly as if trying to keep from starting it. 

The needle spun on its point. 

Loki approached, green eyes wide with fear and hunger. What was this strange thing? Why did it turn him cold? 

He got closer and saw the web of blood and the turning opal. He reached out and touched the javelin, but it was so cold that his finger almost turned blue. He pulled his hand back quickly, glaring at the object. Walking around it slowly, he stepped in time with the turn of the needle. He glared at the opal, bright and beautiful. 

In a second, he made up his mind. His hand darted out, and with two fingers, he snatched the stone from the socket. When he held it in his hand, it was covered in a thin film of blood that slid over his fingers and Palm. Loki grimaced, but quickly turned and left, not bothering to stick around long enough to speak to anyone, much less Thor, about this.

He would have to find another way to get this information out of Thor. 

Walking swiftly, Loki left Thor’s hall, turning down to leave the palace entirely. This opal was ancient. It required ancient things to understand it. 

Thor was nowhere in his halls, and Loki slipped out easily. He went deep into the palace, taking a long winding spiral staircase. The treasury was well-guarded, and Loki quickly assumed the guise of a relief soldier, coming to take their place. 

It was a simple trick, but the palace guards seemed to fall for it every time.

Loki smirked as he walked into the dungeon of wealth that his father had hoarded over the years. He pulled his hand out of the bag where he had put the stone and frowned. His fingers were still bloody, a bright red. The tips of his nails were Crimson, almost pointed in the dim light. 

If Loki had any self-preservation or an ounce of self-awareness, he might have been afraid. Instead, he tried to wipe his fingers off on his tunic and turned down to the murmuration, the heart of Ymir, the lifewater of the great tree that held up Asgard in the heavens. 

That was the story, at any rate. 

Loki turned down the spiral staircase that led to Ymir’s well, walking along the stone and tile carefully. It was damp, but it didn’t smell like mold or any other kind of vegetation, instead, the air remained crisp and sharp, as if rain were constantly falling on the rocks that lead down to the final resting place of Loki’s grandfather. 

He had only been here a few times, each time with a gift greater than the one before. 

At the base of the stone spire, was a crudely-made ledge that ran out into the well. He took a few steps along the path before he knelt, placing the opal on the small altar in front of him. 

His hand, he noticed, was still red as the sun after battle. 

Loki quickly tucked his hand away, fully intending to cast a glamour over the pallor later. He tossed a few sprigs of juniper and mistletoe into the water. They sunk fast, faster than plant should in still water. Bubble rose to the surface, and then the after of the still pool began to boil, rising up over the altar, surrounding the opal, but not touching it. 

“Loki,” a disembodied voice rose from the well, resonant and ancient. “Why have you brought me this.”

“I need your help, wise Ymir.” Loki’s voice was honey on a hot day. “This is not something I’ve seen before.” 

“A rare moment I’ve stumbled upon.” On the opposite side of the well, a figure rose up, boiling water, a head and skull long decomposed held up by a boiling shaft. It appeared as if Ymir were wearing a cloak, constantly moving in the wind. “Sincerity from my grandson.”

Loki shrugged, irreverent. “I have nothing to lose with honesty,” he said, looking down at the opal. “What is it?”

“It is an eye.”

Loki frowned, jerking his gaze back to Ymir’s sightless skull. Ymir crouched, like a geyser losing pressure, leaning into it. 

“An eye, older than my drowned bones. More ancient than the gilded mountains, than your magic.”

Loki, still holding his hand hidden under his cloak, made a fist. Ymir continued, reciting in a strange voice that sounded like the waves creeping up on shore. 

“An eye, little one. An eye to see and judge. An eye to remember. An eye for lives lost and lost again.”

Shaking his head, Loki took a step forward. “Where does it come from?”

“It never left its place of making.”

“What does it want?”

Ymir looked up. He stood, bubbling cloak flowing around his feet again. “Blood.”

The opal glinted, the blue flames inside of it catching the dim light. Loki stared at it. It wasn’t evil, there was no presence there, but it was sentient, it saw and understood. It had watched for years, centuries, who knows how long it had waited for its time.

Loki stepped forward and snatched it off the ground, his hand wrapped in a scarf that he quickly used to cover the opal. 

“That will not help,” Ymir murmured, amused. 

“It’s to make me feel better, grandfather,” Loki said as he turned away from the pool. Ymir’s skull and watery body descended into the well, and as Loki made his way back up the treasury, he could have sworn that a peal of tidal laughter echoed in his ears. 


End file.
